


Monday (Coda): To Go Consenting (to the Sacrifice)

by fallingpanda



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Dana Scully (mentioned) - Freeform, Implied Mulder/Scully/Skinner, Implied/Referenced Minor Character Death, M/M, Multi, My personal OT3, X-Files S6E14: Monday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:13:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22092370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingpanda/pseuds/fallingpanda
Summary: Post-"Monday": Mulder is struggling, and turns to Skinner two days after the Cradock Marine Bank isn't blown up.
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Walter Skinner
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Monday (Coda): To Go Consenting (to the Sacrifice)

**Author's Note:**

> I rewatched "Monday" for the tenth time, and wondered if Mulder, being sensitive to the paranormal and all that, would remember any vestiges of the time loop. Also it's a great excuse to write some emotional hurt/comfort with Big Daddy Skinner. :3
> 
> If you're a rebel anarchist, then having seen the episode isn't technically necessary, but I think you'll get much more out of this fic if you're familiar with the events of "Monday."
> 
> This is the first time I've successfully written, edited, and posted a one-shot! Take that depression, and yay for small goals in 2020!

They didn't usually meet on weeknights, but it wasn't often one of them left their customary Post-It note with an emergency sign—a small X in the bottom left corner on the back of the note—for no reason, so Skinner was already somewhat anxious before Mulder answered the door. Walter hadn't seen much of his agents on Monday, too busy directing the beat cops, making sure the civvies were carrolled, throwing reporters out of their blockade; the usual shit that passes by in a blur. He'd checked on Mulder and Scully both, and their reactions seemed mostly appropriate for those who had not only watched an innocent civilian die, but narrowly escaped death themselves. Something in Fox's eyes, though—Walter felt a pang of guilt, because he _knew_ something else was going on, he could read it in the younger man's eyes, and in Dana's as well; she had stood closer than usual to her partner, kept making unnecessary medical checks, looking for a concussion and monitoring his vitals. But there had been so much to do, and Walter couldn't lie to himself and pretend that he wasn't shaken by how close he'd come to losing both of them at once—so, as usual, he threw himself into the job, grabbing onto stable ground. He only remembered Fox's eyes much later that night, burned into his memory, refusing to drown under glass after glass of whiskey.

And now—he looked so much worse. The harsh light of the hallway light threw the shadows under Fox's eyes into sharp relief, his features dulled with exhaustion. Walter stepped into the apartment quickly, shutting the door behind him and automatically throwing on the lock. He took an extra moment to hang up his coat and take a deep breath before turning to Mulder. The second Walter was facing him, Fox fell onto him, arms wrapping around the director's shoulders, head buried in his neck. Walter hugged him back, his concern now gnawing an ulcer in his gut. The two stood in an embrace for several minutes while Walter organized a triage in his mind; he didn't know exactly what Fox needed, so first he wanted an environment where getting that information would be easier. He gently coached the agent into his bedroom, then turned right around and guided Fox to the living room (Walter knew for a fact that Fox had not had a water bed the last time he'd been over, but damned if he knew why it was there now). He settled Fox on the couch, gruffly tucking the one dry blanket he'd found over his lap, and went to the kitchen to make Mulder tea and himself coffee. 

Walter heard a shuffling sound from behind him as he put the kettle on the stovetop. He frowned to see Fox leaning against the refrigerator, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

"Go sit back down." Walter jerked his head towards the living room. 

"No." Fox's voice was croaky.

Walter scowled. "Mulder—"

"Don't wanna be alone." Fox's gaze was fixed on a point above Walter's shoulder. 

Walter's chest twinged painfully, but he only nodded curtly, busying himself with the coffee grinder. 

When the drinks were made, Fox followed Walter back into the living room. They both settled on the couch, Fox facing Walter, his shoulders drawn in and hunched over. 

Walter took a long sip of coffee, the warmth and familiar smell already putting him a bit more at ease. Fox was concentrating on him to an unnerving degree.

"What is the situation with your bedroom?" Walter asked brusquely.

The corner of Fox's eyes lifted briefly. "My waterbed sprung a leak."

Walter barely resisted rolling his eyes. "So I gathered. But why—"

"Would you believe me if I said I didn't know?" 

Walter surprised himself by seriously considering this. On the one hand, it was odd that Fox seemed cavalier about shrugging off a mysterious change in his surroundings; on the other, if it didn't bother Fox, it wasn't a problem. It definitely wasn't the reason for the Post-It note. "In this case, I think I actually would."

He was rewarded with the ghost of a smile that faded quickly. Cautiously, Walter asked, "What is this about, Fox?"

He almost regretted the question as Fox's features drooped, hands tightening around his mug. He was silent for a minute, then said, "Do you know what her last words were?"

Assistant Director Skinner didn't have to spare a thought to school his features, or to know that Mulder was talking about the victim who'd died at the bank, Pam—but Walter had to make sure his voice was gentle when he replied, "No. She talked to you?"

Fox nodded. "She said—'This has never happened before.'" He paused. "She was smiling."

Last words were often underwhelming or incoherent, as shock, adrenaline, and pain clouded the mind and senses. But Fox would know that, so there was more. "Do you know what she meant?"

Frustration, and an unexpected anger, clouded Fox's features. "It's—" Fox shook his head and tried again. "It was Monday—" he said, at first decisively, but with a pause that left the statement open. "It was Monday," he repeated, his brows knit in concentration over distant eyes, searching for a memory that maybe wasn't there.

Walter nodded, feeling cautious again. "The day you went to the bank."

Fox's eyes snapped up to meet his. "Yes. I went to the bank again."

"Again?"

The other agent's eyes grew distant. "Yeah, it was—I was there before. At the bank. And the doors were unlocked . . . " He trailed off. 

If Walter didn't already know how sharply Dana watched her partner's mental health, he would have been confident in knowing that Fox's behavior were the after-effects of shock, or survivor's guilt. But that wasn't the case, and Walter was only left with his instincts and the gnawing worry. "How did you know he had a bomb?" Walter tried.

" _He's got a bomb_ ," Fox said, forcefully, instantly, almost before Walter had finished speaking. Both men were surprised, but the true shock and near-despair on Fox's face told Walter that another tactic was required.

Walter put his coffee cup on the table and moved closer to Fox, letting their knees press together and throwing an arm on the sofa behind Fox. "Tell me about Monday. All of it. Take your time."

Fox's recollection was haphazard and full of unfinished sentences, backtracking, correcting, adding, and retracting, all tainted by a weird combination of guilt, anger, frustration, and desperation. Walter stayed mostly silent, looking Fox in the eyes, occasionally reminding Mulder of what he had just said, the other version that he'd described, or which part of the day they were discussing. Walter listened to what Fox was telling him, but also _how_ he was telling it. Fox did relay the day correctly, but in bits and segments, with some variations that maybe could have happened (there was only Fox's word he had talked to Pam before he entered the bank, and for how long), and other versions that directly contradicted multiple eyewitnesses and security cameras. But Fox seemed aware of the inconsistencies, upset by them; none of the memories he described were things that Walter would have disbelieved, if they had been the initial story: Dana deciding to go to the bank for Mulder, Fox trying the ATM and finding it out of order (Walter made a mental note to have someone check that ATM), Fox and Dana discussing fate and free will, deja vu and bad days (Walter made another note to privately ask Dana what _exactly_ she remembered discussing with Mulder that day), Bernard shooting one of the hostages. They were all very probable events that _could_ have happened, given the circumstances on that day—except they didn't.

When Fox had talked himself out and just sat, tired and unhappy, in silence, Walter said, a little helplessly, "I'm not sure what you're asking of me, Fox."

Fox looked at him miserably. "I'm not sure either. I just—I can't stop thinking about what she said. She seemed—happy. And peaceful. And I don't know why." 

At headquarters the next day, Assistant Director Skinner locked his office door after his secretary had left, and looked up Pam's closest living relatives. She had a mother living in South Carolina, and a sister, Angela, in New Jersey. Both average citizens, the sister had several speeding tickets she had taken her sweet time paying off. Angela also had kids, Pam's niece and nephews. Her father had split long ago, it seemed, and there was an obituary for an older brother dated nearly twenty years ago; drug overdose at 23. Walter found a very informative memorial blog post written by Angela all about her older sister; he learned that Pam had battled a drug addiction, but with the support of her family had successfully completed rehab before she was 26. She loved art history, dogs, and music, and was a well-established figure at the local music festivals, frequently volunteering or doing paid seasonal work. At the time of her death she seemed to have been struggling; the blog was vague, but Walter could paint the picture himself. Bernard probably had a pattern of doing things "for" Pam that mostly made himself feel better, and in the couple years she had been with him, her festival friends had likely been seeing a lot less of her. Add in the possibility of a relapse, and Walter had to stop thinking of the very depressing—but likely—scenarios of what Pam's recent life had been like. He hoped he was wrong.

With an estimate of Pam's likely financial situation, plus calling in a favor or two, it didn't take long for Walter to discover which funeral home her family was using. With the use of another owed favor, Walter was able to arrange an anonymous donation that would cover Pam's funeral expenses, with any leftover funds to be given to her mother and sister. The money came from his personal account, and even with assurances that the donation couldn't be traced to him, Walter knew he ran the risk of the donation being labeled as hush money, or an admittance of fault from the FBI. 

But Walter Skinner didn't let his ledger run into the red, even if the debt was only in his head, and if his ledger looked black from the outside. _He_ knew he was still in the red with Pam, and always would be. For years after the events of that Monday, Walter was haunted by the rest of his conversation with Fox. 

_"So, what was the endpoint? When did the day have to reset?"_

_Fox blinked, then said slowly, "It ended . . . when I died."_

_Walter was temporarily speechless. "You_ died _?"_

 _Fox nodded, movement sluggish. The sky outside had shifted from pitch-black to a bruised blue-gray; in four hours, they would be back at the office. "I was at the bank. Scully came in. And then . . . it splits there, I think. That day, that Monday, the Monday you remember, Pam jumped in front of me. That was different." He paused. Walter was suddenly aware of how hard he was clenching his jaw. He struggled to relax it as Fox continued, "But before, it was me. I was in the bank. Scully was in the bank. Bernard shot. Scully was with me. And I was . . ." Fox suddenly looked alarmed. "I was above . . . me. Scully was there, with her hand . . . " Fox moved his hand over the left side of his chest, just past his heart. Walter's own heart clenched, and his jaw was tight again. "I don't really remember it." Fox's voice was just above a whisper. "I remember the feelings. I was so cold, but then it was a different_ kind _of cold, because I couldn't feel my hands, my arms or my legs . . . Scully said something, she talked to Bernard, but it was like going through a tunnel, I couldn't understand the words she was saying . . . " Fox raised his hand from his chest, stared at it blankly._

_"You weren't supposed to die," Walter said, unable to totally control his voice. "And you didn't die. You're here." He took Fox's still-raised hand roughly, gripping it painfully tight. "With me."_

_Fox squeezed back, and his posture relaxed somewhat, though his face was still troubled. "I did die," he said quietly. "I was . . . gone." He met Walter's gaze. "Why was it right for her to die instead of me? Why did she_ have _to die?"_

 _Walter didn't have an answer. He didn't_ want _an answer. Guiltily, selfishly, he didn't care why Pam's death was a necessary piece in some cosmic puzzle; only that it wasn't Fox, that it wasn't Dana. He didn't want to think about what either of them—or what Walter himself—had done to earn more time on this earth together, what arbitrary or impossible standard had caught Pam off guard. The existential questions of worth, he'd leave to Fox; Walter knew that had a different job. Because even though she may have been fated to die—or destined, or whatever—in the end, Pam_ _went willingly. She knew the price, and went consenting to the sacrifice. And for that, for all that she wasn't given on earth, she was owed. And Walter wouldn't let himself be found wanting by someone who'd given him this gift._

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The line "went consenting to the sacrifice" is from the 2011 mystery thriller The Likeness by Tana French, one of my favorite books of all time. I HIGHLY recommend it!
> 
> I might add more one-shots to this in the future; no promises, but I love Mulder/Skinner/Scully hurt/comfort a lot, so anything's possible.
> 
> Follow me @mothmomm for ramblings about movies and constant Pokemon rts


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